


WicDiv

by Mikkal



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Supergirl (TV 2015), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Asexual Character, Fluff, Gods and Goddesses, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Misuse of Mythology, Multi, Music
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:57:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7412137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkal/pseuds/Mikkal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <i>Every ninety years, a number of gods return as young people. They are loved. They are hated. In two years, they are all dead. The year is 2014. It's happening again. It's happening now.</i>
  </p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	WicDiv

> _you are of the Pantheon_

            Iris stands in front of her mirror, eyeing her outfit critically.

            Dark purple, bright pink, lots of bling.

            The dress is too short for everyday wear, but tonight is not like everyday. It clings to her body like a second skin, the hem reaching her knuckles when she drops her arms at her side. It has only one sleeve—that hooks on her thumb—and just enough glitter that makes her feel like a galaxy.

            Her shoes are just bright pink High Tops. Standard. Neon. She does a little jig in her bathroom, giggling at the blur of _so fucking bright_.

            Add in her gaudy chunky bracelets that range from silver to bronze to gold and the purple and pink mix in her hair that’s been curled outrageously and pinned back to mimic a side shave, it’s safe to say she’s fucking _ready_ , man.

            ….

            _Oh, crap!_

            Maybe not.

            She jumps for the black body pain, dipping her brush in quickly. How could she forget the most important part?

            She drags the brush over her right eye, keeping it close as she carefully brings the paint to a point just at her hairline. She draws two line underneath the ‘winged tip, starting thin closeted to her eye and getting wider towards her hairline. The opposite of the main attraction. Then she dots small white rhinestones along the bottom edge of the larger piece, one large one at the tip, then sticks small ones on the other side of her face, along the top of her eyebrow.

            Iris leans back, stares, then adds dark plum lipstick.

            _Yesssss._

“Iris!” Linda shouts. “Come on! We’re gonna be late at this rate!” There’s a laugh. “Come _on_!”

            She grabs her purse, sliding in extra body paint in case of smudges and her lipstick for the same, and slams open the door, making Linda jump.

“Damn, you look ridiculously great,” Linda says, letting out a low whistle. Iris’ ears burn pleasantly.

 “Girl, same.” She twirls a finger in the air and Linda obliges, turning tightly in a circle.

 Linda’s got her hair in a high pony-tail, curled like Iris’ but with bigger curls and an enormous amount of glitter. Her shirt is black with a jewel neckline, the straps thin, leaving her back exposed and the fabric to fall loosely around her waist. She’s got light blue denim shorts with black three inch wedged Toms. She’s got a silver chain necklace on and multiple rings on multiple fingers. Her face paint is a wide streak of red going from ear to ear over her eyes, a thinner light blue line following the same directions above and a line of silver paint below.

Anything goes for a god’s first showing, yeah?

 

> _you will be Loved_

Iris feels like she’s going to puke or pass out.

She feels high as a kite and grounded as a mountain.

 And the god’s not even on stage yet.

 Music thrums in her ears, thumping her heart along with the beat. She’s breathless and sweaty, her face paint already smeared twice before someone gave her some spray to help it stick better.

No one’s upset, grumbling, that it’s been an hour and no one’s taken the stage except the admittedly good DJ. He’s attractive, dark skin and even darker hair that’s long and pulled into a messy bun. Blue head phones sit around his neck, two blue rectangles start under his eye and go down his cheek side-by-side, under his jaw to his neck, then disappearing beneath his collar. Black dots line the outer edge of each rectangle.

He looks up and Iris nearly trips.

There’s stars in his eyes and she realizes, right then and there, why no one’s been grumbling about no gods on the stage.

  _Quetzalcoatl is right there._

Somehow he finds her, meeting her stare head on, and smirks. Her knees quake. She would’ve dropped quite solidly to the ground if he hadn’t raised a hand and with a _snap!_ of his fingers the music lifts her into dance.

She feels high as a kite and grounded as a mountain.

And there’s only one god on stage for now.

 

> _you will be Hated_

No one notices when the music changes and someone stands on the stage, dressed in a black suit with a dark red dress shirt and a gold tie.

No one notices the moment when they go from clubbing to raving.

Quetzalcoatl had kept his powers simmering just under the surface, working on not blowing the party before the main attraction even premiered.

No one notices until the new person taps his mic ones, opens his mouth, and _sings_.

 Someone faints, several someones actually. Lightning strikes, thunder rolls. There’s a soft gold shimmer in the air, the whole room wavering like a heat wave.

With half-lidded eyes, Iris stays mesmerized by the god on stage. Along with everyone else. Their bodies surge towards the stage, staying back only by the reverence that comes from being in the full presence of a god of the Pantheon. 

He surveys them with a sun-dazzling smile, his eyes gold like coins, blinding and warm. There’s a red smear over his left eye like someone dipped a brush in paint and carelessly dragged it on his skin, gold streaks under his right eye to his ear like the lines Winged Victory of Samothrace.

He thrusts a hand in the air, spinning in a tight circle as his voice flows and flows. He presses his thumb and middle finger together, holding it for a chorus, then _snap!_

The whole room erupts in chaos.

 

> _you will be Brilliant_

Iris wakes up with a pounding headache. Linda is still out cold next to her, curled around a pillow and smiling in her sleep.

She groans, grabbing her head. There’s laughter next to her and she turns to see a pretty blonde guy in a nice grey suit, missing the jacket but replaced by a silver vest over a white dress shirt. He wears no tie, his collar unbuttoned enough she can see his collar bone and the chain of a necklace.

 “Some party, hmm?”

Power rolls off of him like every god she’s ever seen on stage. Her heart skips a beat. _On stage_. _This_ one’s not on stage. No, he’s sitting there, smiling at her. Looking vaguely like a golden retriever.

 “Y-You’re, you’re,” she stammers, tongue thick.

He bows as grandly as one can sitting on the floor. “Eddie,” he tells her. “You can call me Eddie. That was my name before the Recurrence. And, yes, I am a god.”

Iris is speechless. Unable to form words…which is what speechless means, dummy. _Oh my God, there’s a_ god.

“Wake up your friend,” Eddie says. “Let’s go backstage. Meet some VIPs.”

She nods numbly, reaching out blindly to slap Linda’s arm. The other woman yelps, jerking awake.

 “Wh-What?” Linda yawns, stretching. Then yelps again when she catches sight of Eddie. “You’re!”

He laughs, climbing to his feet, holding out both hands invitingly. “Yes, I’m ‘you’re,’ but you can call me Eddie, promise.”

They take the invitation, grabbing his hands and letting him help them up. Linda wobbles a bit, not all the way awake yet. His hand in warm in Iris’, fingers comfortingly tight.

No one is awake or coherent enough to notice them walking by, nursing the after affects of a god’s party leaves behind. Both a hangover and a second high, leaving them bliss-ed out and wanting more.

Backstage is everything Iris thought it would be. It’s a large, two-leveled room with an L-shaped couch in front of a big screen television and bean bags scattered around. There’s a kitchen in the corner, two doors that probably lead to bedrooms, and another door opposite that’s a bathroom.

Quetzalcoatl is splayed out on one of the bean bags, arm thrown over his eyes. Khione, who Iris doesn’t remember seeing on stage or in the crowd just like Eddie, leans against the island in the kitchen, freezing strawberries and bananas then throwing them in the blender.

“Eddie, what did we say about bringing back fangirls?” Khione says. There’s a teasing tilt to her voice making Iris feel less offended.

He shrugs, the apples of his cheeks turning pink. “Shouldn’t you be saying that to Apollo?”

 Quetzalcoatl groans, shushing them. “Some of us actually _worked_ today. I’m trying to sleep.”

“You slept all day, Cisco,” Khione pointed out, throwing a non-frozen strawberry at him that he caught without looking.

Iris exchanges looks with Linda, raising an eyebrow. Cisco. Cisco. Quetzalcoatl’s real name is _Cisco._ She likes it. They’re learning so many real names here.

“Where’s everyone else?” Linda asks, taking a seat on the couch, casual-as-you-please.

Eddie shrugs. “We don’t always Converge in the same place. Apollo is in Greece, for instance. We were friends before the Recurrence, we hang out.”

 “What about the god from the party?” Iris asks. “And why haven’t we seen you before?”

“Oh, Eddie’s shy,” Cisco teases. “If you think Caitlin’s got a thing for rare performances,” Khione sticks her tongue out at him and he flips her off, “Eddie’s been active for three months and he hasn’t even opened his mouth.”

 “Shhhhhh,” he hisses.

The single door finally opens and the VIP of the night walks out, wearing a black tank top and dark washed jeans. He’s rubbing a towel through dark brown hair and, wow, he’s got _nice_ arms.

 He looks up and jumps, bright green eyes wide at the sight of Iris and Linda. There’s still the faintest traces of makeup around his eyes, smudged on his cheek.  “What the hell?”

Eddie grins. “Iris, Linda. I’d like you to meet our newest Pantheon member. Barry. Otherwise known as Hermes, God of Messengers, Thieves, Travelers, and Boundaries.”

 

> _within two years you will be Dead_


End file.
